If You Asked Me Today About That Yesterday, One Year Ago ...

I started writing this post at 1:00 a.m. today, just another Wednesday here in Doha.  

May 29, 2013.

I started writing it today because I couldn't bring myself to write it yesterday.

Even today, I had to put it aside.  

I couldn't 'not' write it ...  and yet I couldn't quite 'write' it.  

I felt I had no 'right' to write it.  Maybe because I didn't own the grief.  Yet I shared in the grief.  We all did.  All of us, this nation of expats.​

It's now 11:35 p.m.  And I had to write it.

But please know that I couldn't write it right.  Because the whole story is just too wrong.

If you asked me today what I felt just yesterday, I would answer you this ...​

"Grateful"

• Grateful that I was able to spend the morning shopping for party favors for my daughter's "fake" birthday (since her birthday is mid-July, when all expats and their kids are gone, no one is ever around for the actual 'day', so we're celebrating in May).
• Grateful that my daughter got to spend the afternoon at her "first friend's" birthday party, laughing and dancing, and swimming and eating cake, and just being a seven-year-old.
• Grateful that Smilin' Vic walked through that door after a day's work and that both Kiddo and me were here to hug him tight.
• Grateful that I was able to spend the evening talking and sharing with fellow expat friends.​
  

Grateful because I am one lucky parent and expat.  

But I didn't start writing this post because I was grateful.  

I started writing it because I was

sad, mad, insane, grief-struck, guilty, angry, confused, frustrated, powerless, indignant, fearful, crazy, distrustful, ashamed.

I started writing because I couldn't shake the urge to cry; I started writing because I didn't feel like I was the one with the right to cry.  I started writing because today there was ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE I COULD DO.

Because on that yesterday, just a short year ago, ...

it seems like only yesterday ...

I was at work when I got the news that a fire had broken out at a nearby mall, where my daughter's "first friend's" birthday party was to be held.  The mall was evacuated, all activities were cancelled, but the public was assured that all was well.

Shortly after, the rumors began circulating that all was not well.  

But surely it was all rumor and conjecture ...

My best friend, the "first friend's" mom, was the first to inform me that all was most definitely NOT well.  Lives, not flames, had been extinguished in the fire on that fateful day, that yesterday, one year ago.  Nineteen in all.  Thirteen children among them.  Precious souls, each and every one.

It most certainly couldn't be true.  I hung up the phone on my friend that night.  Told her that we couldn't spread false rumors.  I simply couldn't conceive that what she was saying was true.  We'd been told IT WAS ALL OK!  

And then I checked online.  And misguidedly clicked on a YouTube link.​

And saw an image I will never be able to erase from my mind.  Not if I live to be one thousand years old.  ​

The image of a seven-year-old girl being carried out lifeless.  ​

She could well have been mine.  

If you were an expat parent in Doha prior to May 28, 2012, chances are you had left your child in the play area in that mall where this beautiful, beautiful child drew her last breath.  

You had left them there for a birthday party, or to enjoy a peaceful hour of kid-free shopping, or just because the kids so loved it there.  They loved the soft play area, they loved the staff, they loved the fun and the giggles.  They felt safe there...

That beautiful seven-year-old girl.  She, and all the 'mall' children, and those who stayed with them, and those who tried to save them, are forever engraved in my mind.

On that yesterday, one year ago, too many Doha expat families grieved.  On that yesterday, one year ago, an entire nation of expats grieved.  ​

And yesterday, the grieving continued.  Publicly for some, privately for others, but all of us, without a shadow of a doubt, at some point yesterday, remembered that day, one year ago.  And then, yesterday, we carried on.  

But that yesterday will forever be today.  For the parents, for the loved ones, and for this nation of expats ...  

May 28, 2012

is forever etched in our minds.

Children, spouses, parents, friends and the misguided illusion of safety were taken from us that day, that yesterday, one year ago.  

My heart goes out to all the families and loved ones today.  May you all find the strength today to survive that yesterday, one year ago.

I pray you know that because of that yesterday, one year ago, a nation of expats will forever feel guilty about feeling grateful today.

I pray you know that a nation of expats are with you in spirit, supporting you, struggling to make sure that that yesterday, one year ago, never becomes someone else's tomorrow.​

I pray that you know that we all realize your child could have been our child.  Your children could have been our children.  And as we grieve for you and your loss, we feel horribly, horribly ashamed and guilty that we are grateful that our children were not there on that yesterday, one year ago.  We all know they could well have been.  

I pray that you let us carry the shame and the guilt.  Completely.  Let us at least carry that.  I pray that you relinquish the guilt forever, and leave yourself that space solely to grieve that yesterday, one year ago.​  

That yesterday, one year ago, has become today, tomorrow, and forever for all the families who lost their precious, precious loved ones in that fire at the mall where we all left our smiling, happy children.

I pray I have not hurt or offended with this post.  But I'm allowing myself to be grateful today, and I'm accepting that I feel ashamed about it.  I'm ​allowing myself to grieve today, for that yesterday, one year ago, and I'm accepting that I feel guilty about it.  Because I don't really have the right to grieve, do I?  Or do I?

The fact remains that if you ask me today about that yesterday, one year ago, all I can say is this ...

"I grieve..."

​N.B.  The words below are not mine, but I thought they conveyed really well the thoughts shared by many fellow expats yesterday.  We cannot forget, and every day we are reminded.  Please know that we remember.  The words were retrieved at http://www.memorieshonored.com/?page=non-denominationalprayers

We Remember You

At the rising of the sun, and its going down,
we remember you.
At the blowing of the wind, and in the chill of winter,
we remember you.
At the opening of the buds, and in the rebirth of spring,
we remember you.
At the blueness of the skies, and in the warmth of summer,
we remember you.
At the rustling of the leaves, and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember you.
At the beginning of the year, and when it ends,
we remember you.
As long as we live,  you shall live too will;

for you are now a part of us, as we remember you.

Grey smoke blowing to the song "I Grieve" from the 2002 album "Up".

ASD - Show of Compassion - May 31, 2011

(teachers and parents of the American School of Doha encircle students in a moment of silence for the lives lost and those who lost loved ones in the May 28, 2012 fire)

Those Times When Back Home is Just an Aching Void ...

I was on Facebook tonight and I saw a comment left on one of my friend's pages.​

I didn't know the someone who'd left the comment.  But their comment showed that the someone was a "friend of ****".  The friend they were a friend of was my ex-brother-in-law.  (Ex in the sense that I am no longer married to the brother of the sister to whom he is no longer married.)  ​

​Soooooo, I'm coming clean here.  I admit it.  I am a LURKER ... (eeeegaaadddss!).  I saw his name and I went to check out his FB page.  Because that's what lurkers do.  And I scrolled down.  Not much public information, but a link to a Flash Mob Christmas Carol at Mall (I'll include the video link below).

I clicked on the link ... not because I was feeling Christmasy in May but because I wanted to get a sense of what he was into these days.  ​

And I cried.  I forgot about my ex brother-in-law, I forgot about what had led me to this link.  I just cried.  I cried for Christmas in May.  Because the link was a link to home.  To the feel-good familiarity of people who don't know each other but 'get' what brings them together.​

Unless you've been an expat, I don't know if you can truly appreciate this feeling.  This aching for home.  This aching for what you miss.  This aching for what you think you truly know.

Most days I'm perfectly happy in the ME.  Of course I miss my family.  I'm sad that I can't attend family weddings and ​baptisms.  I regret that I can't spend more time with my mom and dad.  I miss my friends.  I feel bad about not calling home more often.  But beyond that, I'm mostly happy in the ME.

But EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE ... I get an ACHE.  An ache so big it ​cripples.  It is an ache for things familiar.  

It is an ache for the smell of spring (you know that smell, the one of fresh sheets laid out on the bed after blowing in the cool spring breeze all afternoon).  

It is an ache for sight (you know that sight, the one where you wake up in the morning and see sunlight reflecting a myriad of prisms off the dew that has settled onto a million blades of grass).  

It is an ache for sound (you know that sound, the one of crickets and of leaves rustling in the wind carried through your bedroom window on a warm autumn night).  

It is an ache for touch (you know that touch, the one of a snowflake landing on your cheek).

It is an ache for taste (you know that taste, the taste of fresh Atlantic lobster, the taste of salt air at the beach, the taste of farm fresh vegetables, the taste of campsite grub).​

​It is an ache for laughter (you know that laughter, the one that is shared with those very few who have known you forever).

It is an ache for everything that I walked away from willingly, by choice.  It is an ache for everything that made me who I am today.  It is an ache for friends and family.  It is an ache for what once was.

Every once in a while ... I get that ache.​  That aching, aching ache.  

And I wish I was home.​

​Driving home from the airport ... December 2011.

Viral vid I found floating around of a flash mob that breaks out the Christmas Spirit at a mall.

Seductive Me ... (An Ode to Mothers, Part 2)

Prologue ...

I had initially intended for the title of this post to read "Sexy Me ...".  Partly out of my intrigue at how loosely the term is flung about here in the ME, and partly just to reflect on my own past and present perception of the word.

However, since I cannot successfully Google the word "sexy" from where I live, since I cannot even retrieve a ​definition off of Wikipedia ... I figured it might be best to temper the title.  

Otherwise, no manner of engine search combination would lead my 3 faithful bloggers back to this post.  

It's ironic, because I imagine that I have heard the word "sexy" used more times and more casually in my 6 + years in the ME than in my entire 36 years previous.  

So the whole title change thingy has kind of thrown me for a loop, ​and I've kind of forgotten the initial flow this silly tale was supposed to follow.

No worries; that happens a lot.  ​

​I think I wanted to write about how every Mom out there deserves to feel sexy.  Not all of the time, but at least some of the time.  

Sexy in a good sense, not in a lewd and submissive way.  More in the sense of recognizing something worth desiring, celebrating and enjoying in yourself.  

Since I can't get writing this post out of my head, I'll wing it.  

Here's wishing you a "Happy Mother's Day ... From Seductive Me to Seductive You".

So what in the world led me to this post ...

Well, I was just sitting here, checking out my nails on Mother's Day, and I was reminded of the Seinfeld episode where George discovers a potential career as a hand model.  

I will never be a hand model; my fingers are far too crooked, my veins far too prominent, my skin far too aged.  But I could be a nail model.  Of that I am certain.  I just don't know if there is a market for natural nails anymore.​

I said to Smilin' Vic and Kiddo "Check out these nails, are they not gorgeous?"​

Kiddo thought I was being vain.  Smilin' Vic told her that Maman does have gorgeous nails and she never brags, so if she's vocalizing satisfaction about her nails, they must really be amazing.  

He said every Maman should have something she truly finds desirable about herself.  I liked him ... a lot ... when he said that.

Finding "sexy" in the oddest things and moments ...​

I have always had good nails.  I'm proud to show them.  I don't have to work at them.  I think they're appealing and neat and, in all frankness, just plain sexy.​

In fairness, my hair can be sexy if I try hard enough, as can my eyes and my mouth, but these require a lot more work.  I have to style, and drape, and paint and purse.  It doesn't just come naturally.  But my nails just are what they are, and that makes me feel sexy.

I don't think I ever felt sexy before the age of thirty.  I tried to be sexy, I dressed sexy, but I never "felt" sexy.​

The right clothes could make me feel sexy, but that's dependent on the right frame of mind.  The same dress worn seductively one evening might feel frumpy the next, depending on whether I'm ​feeling carefree or bloated or stressed.

As I've gotten older, I've discovered a new sexy; the kind that comes from "being" and not from "trying to be".​  

You might think it's one thing and aspire to that, then ​realize that you got it all wrong.  Through the years, I've realized that sexy is usually found in those things that come naturally to me, not the things I work at.  It's the things I enjoy, not the things I aspire to.

Cooking makes me feel sexy.  Not the actual "cooking" part, but the conceptualizing, creating, serving.  Tasting.​  Pleasing.

Using my brain makes me feel sexy.  Nothing is quite as sexy as a heated debate, perhaps aided by a potent glass of red.  Breath ​comes quicker, pulse races, body tenses.  There is something very sexy about contemplation and persuasion and strategy in discussion.

In my thirties, I started to run.  Running definitely made me feel sexy.  Sweating, struggling, overcoming, achieving = sexy.

In my mid-thirties, when Kiddo was a baby/toddler, nothing made me feel sexier than cradling a child on my hip.  It was 'mom sexy'.  ​

• Listening to good music ... feels sexy.
• Standing with tummy pulled in and back straight ... feels sexy.
• Waking up in the morning and taking the time to really stretch in bed ... sexy.
• Taking the time to use body scrub in the bath ... sexy.
• Fresh breath ... sexy.
• Caprese salad ... sexy.​
• Sweat pants that have actually made it to the gym ... sexy.​
• ___________________________________     (this is YOUR bullet, left blank for YOU to fill in)​.

Epilogue

Without meaning to generalize (though obviously that's what I'm leading up to), there seems to be a tendency in Asian females in the ME to use the word 'sexy' a lot.  It's used as a compliment, much in the way my North American friends would say "Looking good!" or "That dress looks great on you."  

It always strikes me as so odd that I hear the term used several times daily in a part of the world that discourages the very suggestiveness conjured up by the word.  

In fact, our maid often tells me I look 'sexy' (yeah, freaked me out a bit too the first time she said it in front of my then 4-year-old) if I'm going out and made up, dressed up and pumped up. ​

I appreciate the thought, but that's not sexy to me.  I find 'sexy' at the weirdest moments, usually at those moments when I'm feeling totally comfortable with what I am and what I'm doing.  ​It's not about the makeup or the clothes ... it's not about someone else's outside view of me ... it's really about a state of mind.​

So I guess there's no point to this post really, other than rumination on a term that means different things to different people ... it's one of those things like 'love' ... really hard to define, really hard to put into words.  But overall nice once you figure out what it means to you.  

"Happy Mother's Day ... From Sexy Me to Sexy You".

​P.S. The video below was added post-script.  But it just goes to show ... listen to "Gangnam Style, Sexy Lady", minus the 'Sexy'!

Flashmob today at dubai mall gangnam style!!

Under the Dust ... (An Ode to Mothers - Part 1)

Living in the ME, sand and grit are a constant.  You can be assured that a film of dust will immediately replace the one you have just swept, mopped, or wiped away.  It is simply unavoidable.

Maids in the ME spend a good part of every day hosing down the outside of the house, the patio, the outdoor furniture; wiping the kitchen cabinets and countertops; dusting the end tables and curios; whacking and vacuuming sofa cushions and carpets.​

Up until a few weeks ago, I never really got to see the dust, nor appreciate the shine that results from a good spray of furniture polish.​

Then Tita L. (our maid) went on vacation.  

Within 24 hours of her departure I started to really notice the dust.  Within 48 hours I was sneezing uncontrollably.  Within 72 hours I was saving on paper by writing my grocery list in the thick film of dust that covered the dining room table.  ​

​I believe it is on day 4, after mistaking our cat for The Sandman, that I finally succumbed to the lure of the feather duster.  Armed with Windex, Pledge, a few dust rags and steely resolve, I set about the house swiping and wiping, determined to eliminate every single last sand particle from our abode.  I worked tirelessly through the morning hours.  Once I had finished, I sat back to admire the shine.

The house looked great.  Spotless.  I felt enormous satisfaction at having accomplished what I'd set out to do.  I battened down the hatches, sealing all doors, making sure all windows were tightly shut, inspecting the house to make sure not a single gap to the outdoors remained.  

You know what comes next.  

Yup, 'dust'.  

Within 24 hours, a slight film had re-covered every visible surface in the house.  I realized there was simply no escaping the dust.  But this time, I acted quickly.  I didn't let the dust accumulate.  A quick pass through the house, and everything was sparkling again.  I've managed to keep the house relatively dust-free, but it's been a constant and conscious effort.  It's not easy.  I really appreciate the shine these days.  I know it's not that hard to achieve, but I also know it's not that easy to maintain.  It takes work.​

​Today, on Mother's Day, I was struck by the similarity between a dust-free house and a happy family.  

I realized that there have been times, when things are going well, where I forget to appreciate the shine.  I take it for granted.  I let little things slide.  I go about my business assuming that this is just the way life is meant to be.

And then something happens, and "BAM!", out of the blue I realize that I've let things go a little too far.  An accumulation of small little misgivings, a lack of interest or motivation, a moment of frustration or anger untended; and all of a sudden tempers flare, voices are raised, tears are shed, and a major clean-up exercise is in order.  This is usually followed by a true appreciation of the luster of a loving family.  But the overhaul is painful.  

I realized that we have to work hard every day at maintaining the shine.  I realized it when a friend asked me out to coffee.  I told Smilin' Vic I felt guilty about going out to breakfast when I had so many things to do.  And he said "It's your day, why in the world would you feel guilty?  Enjoy."  Such a little thing to say.  But it made my day.  Then he surprised me by popping in to join us for coffee and give me a single rose.  ***Sparkle***.

Kiddo came home from school today with a dozen roses and a Mother's Day card in the shape of a handbag.  The handbag card was a compilation of my Kiddo's impressions of me.  Of the things I like, and the things she likes about me.  Not a single thing in there was extraordinary, other than the fact that I'm eight feet tall!  (I was initially flattered, then realized she also put me down as three feet wide!)   

The point is, what sticks with kiddo is those times when we cook together, when I drop her off at school and pick her up.  For me, it's Kiddo singing a new version of "The Shortcut Song" in the back seat on the way home every day, it's knowing Smilin' Vic likes sharing coffee with me.  For Smilin' Vic, I think it's just coming home to two people who are thrilled to see him at the end of every day.  The simple, everyday things that shine through consistent care and effort.​

Much like dusting, it's sometimes the mundane that makes a family shine.  It is sharing coffee, it is watching Food Network together, it is letting someone know that a very small gesture made a very big difference.​

Relationships get dusty; it's inescapable.  We all fall victim to the dust at one point or another.  But with proper care, with a little bit of attention, with a daily check, it's amazing the shine you can uncover under the dust.  

May all moms out there today enjoy their moment of shine.  

My heart in a handbag ...​

​I admit, the title page freaked me out just a tad ... didn't quite know what sordid tales might lurk within ...

​Interesting dichotomy ... apparently I love Food Network and cooking but can't remember to pack a lunch!?

She likes it when I drop her off and bring her back from school.  It's our special time every day; we make up a new "shortcut song" on the way back home every day as we try to circumvent Doha traffic on the back roads.​

8 feet tall and 3 feet wide.  I like that she didn't actually include my weight!  Bright girl, she'll do well in life  :-)​

I would like to think this picture is drawn to scale ... note the wispy waist.  She did get the cowlick bangs and under-eye circles right!​

Take Me With You .... !

Not many words; the image says it all.​

There was J. from daycare, L. from Grade 1, M. her neighbor.  And now T.  

T. is special.  She's one of the BFF's.  

So many tears were cried tonight.

We often don't realize how much the first hello means until the last goodbye has been said.

The life of an expat child .... a thousand goodbyes.​

The life of an expat child.  Goodbye from a 7-year-old ...​